The Silenced Tale, стр. 60
Forsyth makes a sort of confirming noise, not quite a grunt, and nods a little. “Where will you go?” he asks, and Elgar can already see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the small ways in which Forsyth will use his powers to ensure that Juan’s flight into anonymity remains cloaked.
“Gil’s invited me to come stay with him while I recover. Says he’s got a great physiotherapist on tap.” Juan blushes a little as he says it. Elgar knew that Juan and Gil liked each other, but he hadn’t realized how deep the connection had been between the two of them. It reminds him a little of Kintyre and Bevel—he hadn’t known the depths of that connection, either, but Lucy says Bevel fell for Kintyre near immediately.
“I’ll bet,” Elgar says, and feels himself grinning. “But not with family?”
“I can’t bring this to their doorstep. Gil’s got security at his place; private neighborhood, great CCTV, and all that.”
“Admirable,” Forsyth says. “And leaving the state can only help. I approve.”
Juan blinks owlishly at Forsyth, as if he’s not entirely sure why the approval of a man he’s literally just met should mean anything. “Okay. Um, thanks?”
“Okay,” Elgar says, grabbing Juan’s attention back before his former assistant can start to question who Forsyth really is beyond just Elgar’s cousin. “Send me a postcard from La-La Land, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Juan agrees, tension seeping out of his posture.
Forsyth
The next morning, Riletti and Jackson escort us back to Elgar’s house. I was meant to have left after visiting hours were over at the hospital, but found myself too caught up in working out Juan’s safe passage to Los Angeles, as well as checking in with Pip and Alis, to actually leave. No one questions one more sleepless- and harried-looking man sitting in the maternity ward waiting room with a tablet in his hand, his clothing and hair rumpled.
Riletti shows us how to use the new emergency buttons that are hidden in each room of Elgar’s house, and then she and Jackson say their goodbyes. I know the place has already been cleared, and that there are guards in discreet places all around the neighborhood with their eyes on us. Yet I cannot help walking from room to room, checking the windows and locks on each door, peering into closets and under beds. I search for spell-bags, and curse runes, and ill wishes. The sorts of things the police would not understand, or may not notice.
Elgar’s office has been cleaned up. The window has been replaced. His fire-safe is back in the filing cabinet. But there is an obscene gap where his desk used to be, matched only by the one on his bookshelf. The pantry is also empty and still smells of bleach. I find nothing that should not be here, and it leaves me slightly hollow and frustrated, and feeling like I’ve missed something.
When I find Elgar after my search, he is sitting on the floor of the kitchen. One of the lower cabinet doors is open beside him, and in it, I can see cans of cat food, baggies of treats, and an assortment of small furry, feathery toys. Elgar is cuddling one such toy to his chest, tears rolling down his cheeks, apologizing over and over to a marmalade ghost that isn’t really here.
“Come,” I say, helping him upright when he has finished his cry. “I shall order in some dinner—I shan’t make it; Pip says I’m horrific at anything complicated—and we shall discuss our next move.”
“Next move?” my creator echoes, mopping at his face with a tissue. “What next move?”
“The Viceroy will come for you again,” I say, settling Elgar on one of the stools by his kitchen island. “He wishes revenge on you, and wishes to both lure me out and to hurt me by killing you. We know he will come for you again, wherever you are.”
“So, what, I’m supposed to just . . . wait for it?”
“Of course not,” I say. “We know he will come for you. What we must do now is ensure that it is at a time and place of our own choosing, that it is to our advantage.”
“Like a trap,” Elgar says.
“Exactly so,” I agree. A little bit of searching through the cupboards turns up a few take-out menus, and some instant coffee. I can’t help the sneer that must show clearly on my face, for Elgar huffs a laugh.
“It’s not that bad. When you’re out of the good stuff.”
“Has the doctor given you permission to walk about?” I ask, dropping the container of crystals right into Elgar’s trash bin.
“Yeah?”
“How close is the nearest grocery store?”
“About six blocks,” Elgar says, wary.
“Give me your keys,” I say. “I will not abide this.”
Elgar laughs a little more heartily this time, and I am pleased to hear it.
“A-shopping we shall go,” I say, playing up my accent and my imperiousness both for comedic effect. But it has the opposite outcome. Elgar hunches a little, dour. “What is it?”
“Juan always picked up the little things for me. And if he wasn’t here, he wanted me to walk.”
“Well, I am here to pick up the little things now,” I say, opening the fridge. It is barren of all but condiments and bottles of water that are inexplicably all half-drunk. “And it is unsafe to walk.”
“I know, but I just . . .” He trails off, wringing his fingers together. Normally, the physical tic is muffled in the cuffs of his many chunky-knit cardigans, but the doctor has forbidden them until his stitches are removed.
I shut the fridge and walk over to Elgar, placing a comforting hand on his unscathed shoulder. How strange that two of the three people I care most about in the